


Piece it Together

by RalitoEnSalaa



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ardyn Izunia Redemption, BAMF Noctis Lucis Caelum, Family Dynamics, M/M, Mental Instability, Noctis Swears, Older Noctis Lucis Caelum, Regis Swears, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It, Tired Noctis Lucis Caelum, Will update as updates go, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RalitoEnSalaa/pseuds/RalitoEnSalaa
Summary: When Noctis jumps timeline in front of Bahamut's face with 'the power beyond the six,' all he thinks about is fix things before they start.With one of them being getting Ardyn out of Angelgard before anyone else?
Relationships: Ardyn Izunia/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 41
Kudos: 230





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it starts with me wanting to see a time-fix because time-fix is good.  
> and then I want to see Noctis and Ardyn do things together.  
> and then the idea sorta started to get its own ideas.  
> rating will go up as story goes, and tag will update too.  
> let me know what you think will ya;)

In the blue flame of aether, his father burns into another king of the Lucii, raising his sword. Noctis Lucis Caelum braces the armrests. At least try to. His body fails him.

The rulers of yore have pierced him one by one, taking his life little by little in exchange for power; while his father stood, back facing the throne, hearing repressed, muffled groans of the last heir grew weak and weaker still.

Noctis hangs low his head. For one, he no longer has the strength to lift it high, and for another, wishing to remember those eyes as the ones from ten or so years ago. When all was well, and the sun shed lights on the long, tedious stairs of the Citadel, his father held a cane in one hand and his shoulder in the other. 

Walk tall.

Noctis straightens his back as best as he can before Regis strikes the King of Light in the heart. 

*

The Scourge brought down to Eos by an astray piece of star taints. Even the Astrals fall victim. It creates something else instead of humanity: outsiders that are rejected by the rules and orders of this realm. To contain the power beyond the six, the mortal body has to die to free the unbounded spirit from the cycle of light and dark, life and death. The King of Kings stands above all, gazing at the far end of the whirling tunnel.

Ardyn awaits in the vast void of the Beyond. A man waiting for his more-than-deserved death after two thousand winters and springs, whose name was eaten clean from history books by the black mass that clutches underneath his skin still. 

Noctis feels tired. 

He looks to the direction he came from. Beyond the walls, down the stairs, his three brothers fighting on their last breath. Aged in darkness and scar-worn, he hardly recognizes them. They hardly recognize each other, drifted apart under a lightless sky. Noctis blinks. Beyond the time, in the light, a band of twenty-year-olds, not yet baptized in blood and smoke, walk away from the Citadel. An old king watches them. And then the king is young, holding a sleeping child in his arm, alone lamenting a fate told by his reverent Crystal. But before that, the king’s wife is there. She smiles at him, and when raising her head, her eyes collide with her son from a future that she will not be a part of. Noctis blinks, again. In the rain, Ardyn’s body is lying cold. His hair a warmer shade of chestnut, and his eyes paling into gold as he’s being chained and dragged away by the guards, locked up on a remote island, in and out of the same nightmare with the blood on his chest that never washes away. The blood of his love. The blond oracle. She falls by the sea, healing the King of Light with the last of her strength. A crimson flower blooms on her white dress. The ring that rolls out of her loose fingers is picked up by a young man, whose eyes burn. Around them, people scream in the ruined cities, and one by one, they fall into darkness and silence from this coast to another.

The King raises his eyes. He can see, now, Bahamut is waiting, patiently. Noctis will have to make a choice soon. The power he holds is beyond the limit of the world, and that should have cast him out of this star before it tears through his mortal soul. But a child of Eos remains in her embrace no matter what. 

Choose to follow the prophecy and die. Or do nothing and die.

Noctis huffs.

He made his peace with death already, just not with Gods. 

Noctis bares his teeth into a sneer, feeling like his younger self who doesn’t give two shits about where the future leads. The Draconian enlarges his eyes, realizing a moment too late.

Noctis reaches a hand to Time and  _ pulls _ .

*

The King of Kings plants firmly into the floor, head first. 

He yelps, but not moving, content to lie there for now. A moment ago he’s overrun by the push and pull inside his head, the next he spent it all on jumping timeline in front of the Blademaster’s dumbfounded masked face, giving his head a new level of agony. Also because of the goddamn floor. 

Speaking of which, he has no idea where he is  _ or  _ when. All he thought about was ‘fuck it I’m fixing this from the beginning’ before using a power no one ever possessed ever for the first time in history. But, then, when he stares straight up ahead, the ceiling is all too familiar. 

He’s still in the throne room, just not  _ his  _ throne room, where holes and rubbles find their ways all over the walls and the ceiling. It looks clean and well-maintained, besides a few decor changes, it is almost identical to his father’s. 

His father. Can Regis still be alive at this point? Noctis pushes himself up. It is nighttime, fortunately, so his presence has not yet alerted any guards. Imagine landing in the middle of an audience, he doubts he has the strength to warp out of trouble. His vision blurs like a massive stasis.

Standing on wobbly legs, while trying to figure out when he is, the door flies open and a young man strides in. 

“Father?” bemuses the young man, just in time Noctis turns and curses. 

*

Instantly, Prince Regis realizes his mistake. This man may look like his father, but King Mors, although just reaching his forty, appears to be a far older man. Having inherited the ring from his mother at a young age, the Wall drains on Mors’ life force, ageing his dark hair to grey faster than it should.

Regis eyes the stranger with wariness. The hall is dark, but the moon pierces through the windows, giving enough light to make out his suit of Lucian black, tattered and bloodied as if fresh from battle. The man’s face is dusty and contorts like he’s seen a ghost, or a child being caught at mischief, or both. 

Regis briefly considers reaching into the Armiger, but the man’s stance holds no menace, and he is looking about to pass out at any given moment.

“May I ask your business in the Citadel in the middle of the night?” Regis crosses his arms. He has some trouble sleeping and wanders off in the corridors. Mors’ health has been declining too quickly as Niflheim assaults have escalated in the past few years. There are rumours that the king will not last long, and in turn, the king becomes even more brutal and cruel to his subjects, especially his son. 

That is not what worries Regis. No. He gave up on Mors years ago on fatherhood. Only that a scared king may not be a fitting one - ugh, he sounds like his father.

The stranger scratches his cheek, “um, it’s a long story.”

“Well?” Regis asks conversationally. He can’t take on the intruder all by himself, provided this man sneaks into the throne room without anyone noticing. Plus, the non-threatening facade may be an act. It’s best to wait till the next patrol of guards gets here before he tries anything. 

That was the plan. Until the moonlight illuminated the stranger’s raised hand, to be precise, the middle finger with a ring that looks hauntingly royal.

The Ring of the Lucii.

Regis almost can’t keep his face straight. But then it might be fake. After all, that thing has the habit of burning people who’re not Lucis Caelum into nothingness. Which totally doesn’t help when the man, that strongly resembles the current king, next supplies -

“I’m your uncle.” 

Okay. Enough is e-fucking-nough. Regis grabs his sword from the Armiger and hurls toward the intruder. And the next moment, the ring he deemed fake flashes an eerie red, Regis falters under sudden fatigue which causes his blade to miss the target. 

He stumbles to the side and is smacked on the back of the head. 

Shit, the ring’s real. 

*

Noctis really should give two shits about the future - in this case, the past - when he could. He’s not young anymore. He’s  _ older _ than his  _ dad  _ at this point in time. 

Fuck. 

He catches Regis’ falling frame and lays him down gently onto the floor. The prince (that’s so weird) is wearing only his nightgown, looking hardly past sixteen.

Noctis hand palms himself in the face. Uncle? Really? That’s the best he can come up with? He’s not  _ Ardyn _ , who kinda has the right to get away with it.

And Regis’ (calling him ‘dad’ is just so weird right now) response was more...reactive than he thought. He supposes the man was once young, too. A fact that is easily forgotten when all Noctis saw was the old king moving slowly toward his death day by day. Because of the ring, that he had ‘no choice’ but to use on young Regis for. 

His body ravishes on the vitality that the ring squeezed out of the prince. Noctis feels sick to the stomach. Perhaps he made the wrong choice. Should have let it play out as the gods planned. The suffering is done and stays in the past. Instead of starting a new cycle. 

Why did he come back again? Noctis sighs. What kind of beginning is this, if Ardyn Lucis Caelum took the Scourge in himself two thousand years earlier and is imprisoned since; if for a hundred years, kings and queens are dying early deaths for a wall that only protects less than one-third of the kingdom, leaving the rest to Niflheim like throwing fresh meat to starved dogs. 

There’s no turning back, however. If he does nothing, then with the help of the Accursed, Niflheim will rip Eos apart a second time. And he has no idea if his time-jumping power will recover or not, allowing him another try.

Noctis curses; the said power grants him the ability to meddle with Time, and with it, he sees all the past events unfold in front of his eyes. And that knowledge is fading away from his mind, too much for a weakened mortal. 

But there’s one thing he knows. If Regis is a boy, and not yet a man, then the empire hasn’t uncovered Angelgard. He can get to Adagium before anyone else does. 

One more matter, though. Noctis looks down on his hand. The Ring of Light flickers, metal cold, resting on his middle finger.

Noctis opens his Armiger (he can do it now without permanently damaging himself); The items he hoarded over the years pile up as they usually do, except the Royal Arms. 

Bizarre. Everything royal disappeared but the ring. Looking at Regis’ blade on the floor, he guesses that unique items can’t co-exist (video games logic). And when he has the ring, what about Mors? Without it, the Wall collapses, and daemons and Nifs threaten at the border. 

Guess he’ll just have to check out his grandpa and then the Crystal. Letting out an exasperated moan, Noctis picks up young Regis in his arms. It’s not like he’s going to leave him on the stone floor for the rest of the night. 

With caution, Noctis nudges open the door and presses his ear near the silver. If he remembers correctly, the Crownsguard patrols through the area every fifteen minutes back when he would sneak out of his room in the night. The path from almost anywhere to the chamber of the crown prince he memorized by heart, and princes and princesses have been living in the same place for a few hundred years. 

Noctis waits for the footsteps to move farther and dashes out into the dark. 

At this point, cameras are not a thing, so he can travel the Citadel with relative ease. But he’s carrying a person - ‘a sack of potatoes’ style - and Regis is heavier than he looks. 

Soon enough, Noctis reaches the prince’s chamber. There are, of course, a pair of guards at the door. Judging by their bored-yet-solemn faces, they probably have no idea their prince slipped out a while ago. So sneaking is like a family tradition. Noctis hums airily.

Usually, he would warp out of the door when the guards are changing shifts and return later from the balcony. With another person, it’s a bit tricky. Noctis summons a length of rope from the Armiger and uses it to secure Regis’ unconscious form on his back. Pushing open the window - third from the left, he takes a knife and throws.

Let’s hope it actually works.

In a flash of blue, the two disappear and reappear on the ledge. Warping with another person evaporates his magic like boiling water in a volcano. He never managed it in the past and just barely now with his weakened strength. Noctis’ head starts throbbing. He cracks a bottle of ether over himself and takes a deep breath.

To be honest, Noctis suspects that the obvious warping points all over the Citadel are designed intentionally for unsettled royals and their grand escapades.

The next two warps land him on the balcony with a totter, and thankfully the glass door is not locked. Dragging Regis to the bed, Noctis flops down beside him. If the prince is found amiss, the journey to the Crystal can be ten times harder as it’s located underground. 

Noctis lies there for a little, watching Regis’ chest rises and falls. It’s weird. Seeing his dad being young and unburdened. When he is yet to shoulder a crumbling kingdom and learns the fate of his chosen son. 

That future will not happen. Even if he fails to leash Ardyn from the start. Even if he needs to pay his life for the dawn. 

Cracking another bottle of ether, Noctis gets up and takes out Regis’ sword from the Armiger, picked up earlier in the throne room. He leans it against the nightstand. Taking one more look at the prince, Noctis comes to the bookshelves. 

Okay. So. After the Marilith, he withdrew into the safety of his mind. His dad had tried everything, but with the increasing malicious attacks from Niflheim, there’s only so much time he could spare. Often, in the quiet of the night, Regis, having thought Noctis slept, merged in front of the shelves with flickers of blue. He would sit by his child’s bedside, sometimes merely minutes, and sometimes an hour or so, reading his reports and documents. And then the burden of the Wall became too much until the old king lost the ability to phase. 

The little prince discovered that behind the shelves were tunnels without entrances or exits. Only the Lucian royals with their magic that ignore the limits of space can travel the Citadel from there. When he grew older, he would swagger his way into Insomnia without notice. 

Noctis takes a step toward the shelves, and the next moment his form phases through to the other side. He takes out a flashlight from the Armiger; the inside of the secret passage is gloomy and dank, with several paths branching to different locations within the Citadel and one that leads to the city.

It takes some minutes to reach the king’s chamber. Noctis holds his breath, pressing his ear to the wall and listening closely to any sounds that might indicate Mors’ is not yet asleep. Nothing. He waits for a little, and it’s still quiet. 

Noctis phases through the wall. 

The room is unlit, under the poor light of the pale moon, the king’s bed is empty. 

Fuck. Noctis steps to the bedside, lifting up the neat cover. The duvet is warm to the touch. Mors was here not long ago. Noctis sighs, remembering his grandfather has the reputation of being called ‘the Mad King’. 

Noctis never had the chance to meet him, as Mors died long before he was born and know only the facts in the history books. Regis scarcely talked about his father, too. Occasionally, the old servants in the Citadel would murmur amongst themselves about the madman claiming he was haunted by ghosts. Mors found difficulty in sleeping as his age grew and was paranoid till his death. 

What is he expecting. Noctis crosses off ‘visiting grandpa’ from his list and resigns to ‘checking up with the Crystal’. 

The Crystal, though, is a bitch of its own. The secret passage from earlier does take him directly to the stairs that lead to the big glowy stone, but the said stairs are guarded 24/7. And not just  _ any _ guards but guards who sold their souls to the monarchy in exchange for magic. Either he kills everyone or tries to convince them he’s actually the royal bastard of his great-grandmother.

_ Fantastic _ . Noctis phases back into the tunnels and finds his way to the underground chamber. 

*

It is all very strange. 

Noctis is tapping his feet on the floor and staring at the flickering entrance to the Crystal Chamber like he’s about to see a motherfucking rock that possesses the power of giant-fucking gods. 

So. He got to the stairs just as planned. Except when he was readying himself to fight his way to the Crystal, there’s  _ absolutely _ no one there to meet his sword. Which, in result, led him to descend the very long stairs in  _ absolute _ darkness with extra alertness and still tipped over his toes. 

Now, hearing the hushed whispers coming from the inside of the entrance, Noctis narrows his eyes. He might need to smack people into unconsciousness again very soon. 

But the ethers he drained on earlier did little to help his situation. Several phasing in a roll exhaust his magic, and his headache is searing. It kinda is a good thing that there weren’t any Royal Guards. 

Just as Noctis contemplates his options, the person inside the chamber calls out. 

“Vita, you have come! At last!”

Shit, Noctis dodges out of the direct line of sight to the entrance, trying to think what is going on. His headache really helps.

“Come out, Vita! I have been waiting for you and called off the guards. You have the ring, do you not?”

Okay, no, what? Suddenly, Noctis recalls just  _ whose _ ghost is haunting the Mad King. Mors’ mother had two children and let out her last breath when her second son took his first. The ring fell onto the shoulder of the young prince who was thirteen years old. The Wall is no friend to childs, but it was a choice between a boy and a three-day-old. The boy king put on the Ring of the Lucii and raised his little brother alone, until the youngest Lucis Caelum was attacked during a trip out into the kingdom by Nilfheim and fell down a cliff in front of his brother’s very eyes. 

Mors claimed he’s haunted since. 

Vita, that’s his name. Noctis curses under his breath. He might get away with uncling his dad this time around. Clearly, Mors, who’s inside the Crystal-Fucking-Chamber right now, mistakes Noctis as his long-dead brother Vita. 

The King of Kings should learn to give two shits about his decision. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I took some (which means a lot) liberty with Mors because he got little to no lore  
> and all my lore knowledge came from the fan wiki page


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter took so long! cause i'm a bit uncertain on how to write mors  
> aaaaand thx for all the comments!! rly appreciate that!  
> i love to know all your thoughts!

Mors refuses the pair of guards trying to follow him when he exits his chamber. 

It is night. He walks alone down the corridor, instinctively avoiding all the patrols. He can still manage that at least, after a long time not being a reckless youth. In the echoes of his own footsteps, Mors looks out into the city. The light is ever bright. It is late winter, and the streets should be cold, but Insomnia does not sleep. 

The Wall keeps the fouls far away, but for how long? Mors feels it. Sees it every time in a reflection that this king does not last. The Wall is becoming fragile, he feels it. Soon, how soon, inside and outside will not make a difference. They are getting in; they are invading. Nothing is safe. No. Not long. Notsafe.  _ notanymore.  _

The gates need guards. He is sending more first thing in the morning. No. Right now. Send the Royal Guards. The suspicious. The refugees. The spies. He is writing the order now.  _ Eliminate them at the gates. _

The king stumbles for his study. He falls onto the smooth, hard ground. His crown drops with a delicate click. Mors gravelly inhales, picking the crown with shaky fingers. 

Then, in his sights, the Ring of Light vanishes. 

He stares at the patch of skin where the ring was a breath ago, the years of wear left a permanent dark mark. The ring is gone. He dives onto the floor in a frantic search, and, with no avail, scrambling for the window.

The Wall, without his life the Wall will be down. And he cannot know from this far off from the edge if it is still there. The Crystal’s light is outshined by the bright-lit city. He has to check the Crystal Chamber. Has to see it with his own eyes. 

Mors stands, and, at the corner of his vision, catching a glimpse of shade. 

“Vita!” he cries, but there’s no one down the muted corridor. 

“Is that you? Did you take the ring?”

Only his voice echoes back. 

Mors rushes down the hallways but keeps his back straight. A scared king is not a fitting one. Time to time another set of footsteps joins his own and is silent before he can turn his head. It is Vita. It must be Vita.

His naughty little brother, cowering into his bedsheet in the night of storms, afraid of sound and darkness. Vita. He remembers him growing up into a boy. Now he’s a man of his age. Dark hair and angular face. But even in his thirties, he is naughty. Pulling pranks on the king in the night and disappearing for his older brother to chase him across the lightless hall. What a boy. Radiates with the energy of life.

It must be Vita, who wants to lighten the burden of the ring. 

Mors dismisses the guards upon entering the underground stairs. They salute and leave wordlessly. Vita would appreciate this. He doesn’t like people. With a hand sign, the king calls off the Royal Guards, too, making his descend alone under the fluorescent lights to the Crystal. 

The hefty stone gleams in the centre of the room, surrounded by a soft aura and translucent tubes. One of the Tuners in charge of keeping the balance between the Crystal and the Wall is taking down data on her notepad, and hearing him coming, she clips the pen and bows. 

“Your Majesty.”

The first queen to harness the power of the Stone for protection also directed the formation of the Tuners. Men and women who specialize in a variety of fields built the device to project an impenetrable barrier around the whole of the Cavaugh region, shielding it from the imperial force as well as daemons. 

Mors tersely nods, eyes fixing on the centre of the room. He waves a hand and the Tuner exits without questions. The Wall still holds; the Tuners attend to it day and night unremitting. The king would be informed otherwise.

The king only believes in what he hears, and sees, and feels with his own ears, and eyes, and touch. Lone in the chamber, Mors stumbles to the control panel and flicks off the lights. Vita always comes to his elder brother in the dark. Always finds him in the dark. 

*

Noctis has his options narrow down to two: step into the Crystal Chamber and face a grandfather who thinks him his twenty-years-dead little brother; or, get out of here, murder the clueless Accursed to stop the daemons, destroy the empire to stop the war and all while terminating everything on the way.

The second option is more preferable because killing people is always easier than fixing family issues.

Ugh. Noctis cautiously bangs his head on the wall behind. His stasis is finally getting to him. It’s most likely that Mors doesn’t know he’s here and just calling out to his ghost companion. No way he actually knows of his presence. 

Noctis purses his lips. Mors mentioned he’s not in possession of the ring, which means he was right about the ‘unique item’ thing. 

“Please, come to me, brother! The gods have spoken, yet forgive my selfishness. Return the ring to me, for it is the king’s duty,” Mors calls. Noctis can hear him moving closer to the entrance. To leave, it is now or never. 

There are a lot of questions that require answers. Noctis cracks one more bottle of ether, stepping out from his hiding place.

“...Hello,” he waves a little, uncertain of what title or name to call.

At this point in time, Mors would be a man of forty. A peaking age full of vitality, with ambitions that are yet to fulfill and a future still of possibilities. In the faint light of the chamber, the king stands; his expression hazy. His hair is grey, his cheeks are hollow, and his body gaunt without a cape and layers of suits. His son unmarried, and his grandchildren unborn. 

He looks old. 

He looks like Regis. The familiar but harsher browbones, and the straight yet sharper nose; Regis has softer features, and the acute lips and the slightly tipped eye tails resemble more of Noctis himself, who, at the moment, crested in dry blood and dust, gives off the impression of a man barely escaped from the end of the world. (Which is true.)

“Who did it?” the Mad King wails. He lurches forward in an unexpectedly vigorous manner and grips his shoulder. “Are they inside the city? In the Citadel?”

Who? Noctis hisses, a dried wound on his shoulder being squeezed open. Mors doesn’t notice, staring and holding Noctis’ face with both hands, warmblood smears onto his cheeks. 

“Niflheim pays for this,” the king says, gently, and leaves the room with that same manner of vibrant.

What the fuck is going on. Noctis wipes his own blood with the back of his hand, about to chase after the supposedly dying king. Then he pauses, looking back at the Crystal inside the whatever-device. It seems to be functioning fine. And Mors said something along the line of ‘the Wall is the king’s job and you are not the king you mischievous little shit’. Which means he’s supporting the Wall now. Right. No matter. What matters is that his grandpa is  _ not  _ sending all his force to Niflheim like a massacre-suicide.

Noctis goes after Mors, catching him near the end of the staircase.

“No...brother, I’m perfectly fine,” Noctis schools his expression under Mors’ inquisitive gaze. 

“You are hurt, ” the king tilts his head. “There is no forgiveness.”

“It’s not Niflheim.”

“It is one of our own?” without waiting for an answer, Mors bypasses his side.

“No!” Noctis snatches his arm, a bit too hard, and again, Mors doesn’t notice. “There’s no one. Trust me, will you?”

The king sighs, soft and slow, with the patience of dealing with small children. 

“Oh, Vita,” he says, reaching out to caress Noctis’ cheek, smudging the drying blood. “No.”

Fucking stubbornness runs in family. Noctis thinks of his Shield, of all the time he wore resignation on his face with open disdain, and takes a breath.

“Will you trust in yourself, Your Majesty, if you can’t trust me?” he doesn’t let go. “Trust yourself to keep me safe, that no one ever can slip into the fortress you built with your life, that your people are unharmed from the outside threats, and from themselves.”

Mors is silent. His eyes flicker, like looking into some faraway memories. Finally, he speaks, “tell me what happened.”

“I will, Your Majesty, but not here,” Noctis carefully relents his hold. It was three past twelve when he left the king’s chamber, and perhaps close to dawn at the point. He can’t risk being seen by more people; he doubts that the guards would react as kindly.

“To my study,” Mors doesn’t protest, voice suddenly tired, losing all the former vehemence. 

Noctis follows him through the corridors. The two don’t exchange words, each content to stay in their own minds. The King of Light averts his gaze here and there. He needs a plausible excuse for his non-plausible appearance, which, technically, his whole existence is not very plausible. 

Should remember to change before seeing his mad grandfather next time. Noctis runs down the list of excuses. He’s not fluent in lying, it gives him away too easily. Half-lies and half-truth is the best option, but with that splitting headache, he can’t quite weave one out properly. Ugh, he can’t just run away either. Who knows if the moment he turns on his back, the Mad King will go wild again. 

But he can always make a habit out of smacking royalty into unconsciousness, Noctis thinks with a touch viciousness. They have arrived at the king’s study. 

Mors enters first and closes the door after Noctis. He motions him to sit down by the fireplace. Noctis has expected the king to go straight into his inquiry, and now watching as Mors pours two glasses of whisky, each a finger. 

He hands him a glass and sits down on the chair opposite of him. 

Noctis takes a sip. It’s good whisky, round and thick, rolling down the throat like a warm fire. He sinks into the chair. It’s one of those comfy chairs with cushions soft as a cloud. The fire gives a mild flare. He closes his eyes, and opens them. Mors is watching him. In the bleary light, he looks like Regis. 

Older. But so does Noctis. There was a time, when Noctis would sit by the fireplace in his father’s study, short legs dangled at the chair edge. When exactly, he can’t remember. But there were milk and cookies, and his king-father sat opposite to him, listening to his childish speech with a patient smile. 

He sips at his glass. The edge scraping his beard, and the taste of alcohol erupts on the tongue.

Noctis feels tired. 

All the stories he forged on the way here coming up to the back of his throat, he looks down to his hands, dirty and scratched, and the ring cold. 

“I’m not Vita,” he says. “My name is Noctis Lucis Caelum, the 114th heir to the throne, son of Regis Lucis Caelum, and grandson of Mors Lucis Caelum. Chosen King of the Crystal. I came from the end of the time.

“Not far into the future, Adagium will be released by Niflheim. The Accursed will raise havoc on Eos and bring down ten years of darkness. I was supposed to slay him as the gods prophesied, but decide to fuck them and fix everything from the beginning. 

“Sometimes earlier I ran into Regis,  _ Regis,  _ and smacked him into unconsciousness. And then I decide to check the Crystal because the Ring of the Lucii is on my goddamned  _ middle _ finger. That’s how I ran into you, grandsire, I am not Vita.”

Noctis drains his glass and drops it on the floor.

“And clearly I’m supporting the Wall right now,” he crosses his legs, staring Mors dead in the eyes. “Well?”

The king, despite everything, is calm. Too calm. 

“Will you give me back the ring, now, Vita?” he says amiably.

“...Did not you hear what I just said?” Noctis slowly lets out a breath.

“Yes, I have heard. A fine tale, the best you have told. However, it does not excuse you to have the ring all the same.”

he wants to laugh, “It’s not a tale.” 

“However you like, little brother. Yet you would think me mad to believe it is true,” Mors extends a hand. “Give me the ring.”

But you are mad, like history-book-stamped mad, except the said history books don’t exist yet - fuck. Nothing but himself can support his claim, and that should be enough because Vita is dead. Very dead and buried in a royal tomb. 

“Your Majesty, your little brother is dead,” Noctis stares at his grandfather. No reaction. “He died when he’s eleven, falling down the cliff near the border of the Cleigne region twenty years ago.”

Mors hums, his eyes eerily large, “You are alive and well, Vita. Do not have me repeat my words.”

Noctis narrows his eyes. If he gives up the ring, in a few years’ time, Mors will shrink the Wall to strengthen the protection as Niflheim breaks it in the Great War. If he manages to persuade (or kill) Ardyn, daemon-fueled Magitek may not be powerful enough to penetrate the Wall in the first place. If he succeeds...even if he succeeds.

Handing death over to a man who is already driven mad by it is never a choice Noctis will make. 

“No,” he says. “Ask your gods if you don’t believe me. They talked to you earlier and are probably watching anyway.” Like Bahamut in that  _ other  _ timeline when Noctis fucked up his  _ murder people to save people _ plan. 

“The gods answer to no one,” Mors stands. “The ring, brother. Do not force me.”

Or what. Noctis stands, too. Unlike Regis, Mors is old and easy for a smackdown. If, that is, things really come to that. 

It better not. 

“You naughty thing. When did you learn to disobey me,” the king sighs, tone all too gentle. He gestures with his hand, and the hair on Noctis’ back of the neck stand up. He phases, just in time a Royal Guard appears where he was a moment ago. 

Where did that come from? Noctis hisses, manifesting a blade from Armiger. 

“Seize him,” Mors says. “If you harm him, your sister will be next.”

The Guard answers not. She summons a short blade and thwacks forth. Noctis blocks it, barely, with feeble arms. The wound on his shoulder hurts, and something inside his head is drumming against his ear. He won’t last long.

Snarling, Noctis dodges the next attack. He can’t see the Guard’s face, blocked by a helmet, but her strikes are relentless; he has no means to harm her, a fellow Lucian and a woman whose family is threatened by her delirious liege. Noctis dodges, again, subtly positioning himself to a wall that’s void of decorations, where the secret passage located. 

The next hit he welcomes with unsteady hands. His sword slips and falls, and his back presses onto the wall with a blade on his throat. The Guard grabs for his collar; Noctis phases. 

He tumbles down onto the stone floor, momentarily speechless. Shaking his head, Noctis gets up and darts through the dark tunnel. Soon the Guard will recognize his doing. He dares not to lit a light, staggers when hitting a dusty wall. There is no telling what Mors would do, being as capricious as he is. 

Some times down the line, when Noctis tries his best to conceal his noise, he realizes that there are no pursuing footsteps. He waits for a little. Silence, save for his own ragged breathing. His ears are not as sharp as Ignis who’s wont to darkness, but he can tell that the Guard is not inside the tunnels. 

What, can’t trust anyone but himself? Noctis snorts. Of course, Mors will not give away the royal secret to a  _ stranger _ , even he entrusts his fucking life in her hands. Yet, he cannot stay. Maybe his grandfather changes his mind again and decides a disobeying little brother is more intolerable than not-so-secret secret tunnels within the Citadel.

He moves on, slowly but surely, turning on the flashlight. His legs are heavy; walking is more like dragging two sticks through the damp and cold. As adrenaline fades, Noctis’ head grows unclear. Thanks to his abuse of power. And a goddamned ring that’s literally sucking his life out of him. 

The Ring of Light. The King of Light glares at it. The Founder King’s Lucii form glares back from behind a mask.

“You started all this,” he says matter-of-factly to the miniature figure of his ancestor, and sighs. 

Two thousand years ago, the Astrals gifted the Lucis Caelum family with a ring and a holy stone to watch over Eos, but ultimately to kill the man-turned-Starscourge with their chosen weapon, fabricated with the title of a king. They are awake, according to Mors. Noctis is not sure how much of his grandfather’s words can be trusted, but no matter. 

They can watch however they like, Noctis sneers, If they don’t like his plan, then kill him when he’s at his weakest. He even pauses for a dramatic moment, waiting for some godly force to rain down from the sky - or the ceiling since he’s inside a building.

Silence. 

Rolling his eyes, Noctis resumes his trudging, but with his back as straight as his father’s last words. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been playing ffxiv, that's where that tuner came from. you know, aetheryte tuning?


End file.
